


iron, fever, dust

by willowcabins



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Post-Season 4 AU, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-The Season Finale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-04 21:48:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4154208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowcabins/pseuds/willowcabins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shaw, escaped from Samaritan imprisonment, is trying to find her way home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> necessary context: The Machine is still Online, Martine is still alive, and Samartain is still searching for Team Machine.  
> please read the trigger warnings for this chapter in the end notes

In the evening, the gym turned from a private space to one of performance. Shaw watched the slow transformation: the fighting ring was pulled to the middle of the floor, and all other equipment cleared away. Chairs were pulled out and arranged in a circle around the ring, with a break for the betting table. The group of young men helping the gym owner shot her furtive glances, but Shaw ignored them all as she carefully stretched. She pushed her palms flat on the ground, exhaling carefully as some of the tension in her calves let up. Her shorts revealed the large greyish bruise on her thigh from last week’s fight in Wyoming.

As the setting sun streamed through the west-facing window, lighting up the dust mites in the air of the old gym, people began to arrive. The gym owner handed Shaw the tape for her hands, and told her it was time to put her bag- into the locker. Shaw pulled out 200 dollars and asked him what the odds are in her favour.

“9/2,” he said cheerfully, gesturing to the whiteboard they just wheeled in. A young boy was currently writing all the betting scores down. Shaw smirked and handed him the money.

“I think I’m more certain than that,” she says with a shrug, though she didn’t mind. This way, when she won, he would need to pay her 900 dollars. He looked down at the money and grinned.

“You haven’t even seen Farmer Franny yet,” he pointed out. Shaw shrugged.

“I’m pretty confident,” she replied easily. Last week, the odds had be 11/1; it had been a nice little payout. The gym owner shrugged, and gave the money to the man sitting behind the betting table, who carefully noted Shaw’s name down on his leger.

“This is all on your win?” he asked. Shaw nodded. He gestured up at the new categories appearing on the blackboard. “No method of result?” Shaw shook her head.

“No,” she said simply, and then walked up to the ring. As she stepped through the ropes and onto the surface, she ruminated on what she must look like to these men. A brown girl with cropped, unwashed hair, in old sports clothes, covered in bruises. No wonder the odds were against her.

Shaw bounced on her feet, hopping from one foot to another, checking the mat. It wasn't soft; it would hurt to be slammed into it. The room around her filled up, and Shaw jumped from right foot to left, familiarizing herself with the light bounce, which she would be able to use to her advantage. The sounds from the betting table increased; Shaw glanced over, and saw that Farmer Franny winning in Round 1 was a surprising 6/1. The idea that she would even survive until Round 5 was a low 20/1. Shaw’s jaw clenched. Wyoming had had equally little faith in her.

Shaw looked up as the sound stilled, and then increased. The buzzing was laced with a mixture of pride and awe. Her opponent had just stepped into the hall. Farmer Franny was clearly going with a theatrical entrance; wearing a bright pink hood and flanked by four people, the crowd parted with admiration for the stout young woman, who walked up to the ring confidently. Two of her entourage held the ropes open for her as she slipped through, shedding her pink robe.

She turned towards the crowd and lifts her arm as the young boy doing the betting score jumped into the ring with a microphone and announced her name. “Everyone welcome Farmer Franny!!!” He shouted. The crowd cheered. Farmer Franny did a circle of the ring, grinning. She was wearing matching bright pink sports bra and basketball shorts. Her long blond hair was braided into corn rows, and all that Shaw could imagine was Root's little tut if she ever saw this woman.

"Tasteless," Root would mutter, eyeing the woman's ruddy complexion and her square shoulders. The announcer continued introducing them, and Shaw shook off Root’s voice. She didn’t need this now.

"On the left, as the defending champion, we have Farmer Fanny!" The crowd cheered. Shaw rolled her eyes. "Fanny is 21, weighs 162lb and is 5"10." Another cheer. The girl was clearly local. This is what she did for fun. Shaw clenched her jaw, and carefully rotated her head, stretching her neck muscles.

"And her challenger," the announcer continued; the crowd quieted. They were probably curious to see what this brown stranger was doing in their territory. The crowd was large, which meant her name attracted as much attention in rural Idaho as the owner of the gym predicted. Shaw smirked; he had heeded her request not to post anything on social media with a small shrug. “Your name will mean enough,” he’d said with a wink. There was a slight pause as the announcer tried to read her name. "Sameen Ahmadi!" He glanced at her, but she didn't react, so he continued. "Standing at 5"3 and weighing 120 lbs, we are excited to see what Sameen can bring to the fight!" Franny gave Shaw a once over, and smiled smugly. She began swinging her arms, clearly letting the blood flow. The announcer glanced over at her, and she nodded, indicating that she was ready for this fight.

Shaw crouched into the en guard position. Her opponent smirked, and followed suit as the announcer called the beginning of the match, his hand dropping to his side.

Both Shaw and Franny started hopping on their feet, getting to the center of the ring. Franny attacked first, aiming the first punch at Shaw’s face. Shaw tried to duck it, but was slightly too slow, getting it on the cheek. She tried to block the next punch, but Franny had a height advantage over her, and so she started raining down punches. Shaw flinched as one of the punches caught her on the jaw, and she ducked down and slammed into Franny’s stomach, ramming her against the side of the ring and pushing her off balance.

The move, intended to surprise Franny, had the opposite effect; she used her height to deliver a well-aimed jab to Shaw’s kidney, and Shaw collapsed, reeling in the unexpected plain. Now on the ground, Franny twisted Shaw’s arm with a clinical ease and held her on the ground. The announcer counter until 10. A cheer erupted.

Franny had won round 1.

Shaw clenched her jaw and slowly got up as Franny released her, shaking off the cramp in her shoulder. Franny spit out her mouth guard and nodded at Shaw.

“Is your arm okay?” she asked. Shaw narrowed her eyes at her, and nodded slowly. “Do you want Margot to look at it?” she gestured at a woman sitting in the aisle, large dog at her side, watching Shaw critically. Shaw shook her head.

“I’ve had worse,” she said. Franny smiled.

“Ready, then?” she asked, bouncing up and down with an excited grin. The referee nodded at both of them. Shaw glanced at the betting table. Odds that she survived round 2 were not looking good. She nodded to the referee.

The problem was that Franny was not an ordinary part-time boxer. She moved with clinical precision: Shaw was pretty sure she recognised military training in it. Franny’s punches advertised a certain a fighter whose practice came with human beings, rather than with punching bags. As Shaw danced around her, careful to maintain a large enough distance, weaving in and out of her radius to rain small punches on her before jumping back, she realised she might actually be outmatched.

Shaw barreled into Franny again, using her momentum; instead of falling down, though, Franny used Shaw’s momentum and, curving her back, rolled up again, slamming Shaw into the mat unceremoniously. Shaw hadn’t prepared herself for the impact, and she was pretty sure she heard a rib crack as Franny slammed her down. Her knee was on Shaw’s neck, and she held up her arm, forcing Shaw to stay in the position. Another 10 seconds were counted; Round 2 was over.

As they got up, Franny gave Shaw an apologetic look. “I think I heard something crack,” she said. “Margot’s a doctor, she can check you out.”

“Only if I forfeit,” Shaw muttered. Franny pulled a face.

“Yeah,” she admitted. “Only if you forfeit.” Shaw shook her head. No way she was losing those 200 dollars. She rolled her shoulders and tried to shake off the low pain. She wasn’t giving up that easy. Franny frowned, but shrugged and got back into the en guard position.

The third round began, and Shaw was weaving in and out of Franny's punches again. It was frustrating; Franny was not only physically heavier and stronger than Shaw, but she was also somehow equally fast, catching Shaw’s bobs with powerful punches.

The fight ended painfully; Franny extended her forearm and, with a fair amount of momentum, slammed her knuckles into the side of Shaw’s temple. Shaw collapsed, and passed out as the crowd erupted into a loud cheer and Franny looked down at her, eyes wide with worry.

It should have been a quick fight. Shaw should have landed seven well-placed punches, slammed into Farmer Fanny’s side, and then counted the 10 seconds with a delighted smirk as the crowd around her watched their precious white girl with cornrows being destroyed.

It should have been a knockout; Shaw should have gotten $900 for winning.

It should have all been simple.

And yet.

 

Shaw woke up with a gasp, trying to sit up, despite the push of an iron hand on her chest. Before the world came in focus around her again, a dog licked her face, and Shaw recoiled in shock. "Bear," she murmured, horror mixing with excitement. The dog whined, and licked her again before Shaw realised it was a great Dane, and as a result, definitely not Bear.

"Queequeg," a sharp voice near Shaw's head murmured. "Leave her." The dog stopped. Shaw looked up. A young woman came into focus, frowning down at Shaw. Shaw realised she was the doctor that Franny had pointed out - Margot.

"Was this your first fight?" Margot demanded. Shaw snorted, and tried to sit up again. Margot still kept her pinned down, though the push up hurt enough that Shaw would have laid back down again of her own accord.

"No," she snapped, taking Margot's hand and forcefully removing it from her chest. Shaw slowly sat up, allowing the muscles around her rib to take most of the pain. "And it also wasn't the first time I've been knocked out." She winced as she sat up, doubling over as the twinge in her side indicated a broken rib. Margot narrowed her eyes at Shaw.

"Also not the first time you've broken a rib, I'd guess?" She asked. Shaw grimaced through the pain.

"Fast learner," she commented. Margot didn't smile.

"They wouldn't let me call an ambulance because this," she gestured around the hall, "isn't exactly legal, so I can't offer you any pain medication." Shaw laughed and carefully hauled herself up.

"I've had worse," she said with a smirk. The woman got up slowly, and watched Shaw with concern. Shaw looked around; the crowd was mainly gathered around Farmer Franny’s bright pink outline. She was hanging at the edge of the ring, high-fiving some kids. Shaw sighed and looked down at her hands.

"Where are you staying?" The woman asked. Shaw looked up surprised, and then narrowed her eyes at the woman.

"The Sunlight Motel down on Route 56," she said slowly. The woman’s eyes widened in concern.

"That's a terrible place!" she exclaimed. Shaw laughed wryly as she wiped her sweaty forehead with the grey towel she had brought from the motel. It came away with blood. She carefully touched her forehead; she had a cut, probably from her fall. It was bleeding; the blood ran down her fingers when she pulled away. She wiped her hand on the towel and sighed.

"I'm not here for the aesthetic," she muttered. The woman raised an eyebrow, restraining her dog by his collar as he tried to trot over to Shaw again.

"Why are you here?" She asked. “The illegal fighting ring?” Shaw sent her a glare.

"Just travelling through," she muttered.

"Well, at least let me bring you to your hotel. You should take it easy for a couple of days. If you come into the ER tomorrow I could make sure that you can get stitched up with no questions asked." Shaw touched the small cut underneath her eye and just rolled her eyes.

"This is fine," she snapped. The woman stepped forward, clearly about to offer more assistance, but Shaw’s head hurt from the fall, so her temper broke fast. "I'm fine. Leave me alone." Margot looked visibly shocked by Shaw's brush off. She touched her chest nervously and nodded, walking away slowly, with several glances over shoulder.

Shaw sighed, and started trying to put on her coat, only stopping halfway through because her rib hurt so much. She really should take it slow. She bit the inside of her cheek and pushed through the pain with a small growl. She unlocked the locker and swung her back over her shoulder with her habitual force, which made her hiss in pain. It felt lighter than it had this morning though.

Shaw sighed and looked towards the betting table. Her bag was lighter; she’d lost 200 dollars. She only had a couple more hundred dollars, and had lost a solid chunk of money that evening when her bet on herself hadn't won. Perhaps she should come back tomorrow?

Shaw walked to the hotel, even though it was a good five mile walk, and it was pitch dark. She walked along streets without sidewalks, balancing on the edge between the gravel and the asphalt. Every time a car sped along the road, Shaw found herself gasping for breath. Every headlight was a crowbar to her chest, knocking all the wind out of her. Each car represented a danger that Shaw couldn’t defend herself against, in the same way that every car passing by Shaw was a close miss. The next car might not be so innocent.

Her motel room was tiny; the large double bed seemed to take over most of the space. Shaw walked in, and quickly swept the room for bugs. She unplugged the landline and disconnected the television, and then put down her gym bag and pulled out her first aid kit. She set up the full length mirror so she could stare at herself while she sat on the edge of the bed. With mechanical slowness, she threaded her needle and dabbed her gash with an antiseptic wipe. It stung, but she didn’t even react, forcing her face to remain motionless as she clenched her jaw, and finished sewing up the gash.

She gave herself a quick physical exam, pushing down on her chest carefully to confirm the broken ribs. There was a slight lump by the wound; it could be a blood clot, or an air bubble, or perhaps something worse, but for the moment Shaw decided to wait and see.

As it turned midnight, she rechecked the entire room for bugs, turned off all the lights and lay down on the bed in the dark, still fully dressed. It was as if she was waiting for some catastrophic event that never came.

The night was eventless, but pain and stress made Shaw hyperaware of every movement. She ended up not sleeping, instead staring at the ceiling, and trying to force the pain out of her chest. When it was finally dawn, she sat up and gave herself a careful physical exam again. The small bump in her chest had gotten larger; she needed to go to the hospital.

 

For a small town in Idaho, this place had a large ER. Shaw realised it was probably because of the fighting, and probably also tractor and farming related incidents. And even though this place seemed small to her, it was probably the metropolitan center for at least 100 miles, so perhaps it wasn't so bad. After an initially inspection by a nurse, Shaw was told to sit on a makeshift bed behind the curtain in the ER and wait. She ended up waiting for four hours. She listened to the bustle around her and tried to mentally diagnose the people around her. The man describing a pain akin to giving birth who started sobbing thirty-seconds into his discussion with the nurse - probably only a kidney stone. Another man describing exhaustion and headaches and a cough. Shaw frowned. She would have to see him. See if he was looking for something.

The curtain was wrenched open with a jarring hiss, and the familiar face of the young doctor stood there with an open, friendly smile.

"You came!" Margot chirped. Shaw realised she sounded excited about it.

“I think there was a complication with my broken rib. It’s not healing well.”

“Well, that’s to be expected. You broke it less than 24 hours ago.”

“It’s not that.”

“Oh?”

“I think there is a small blood clot.”

“Oh. Well, let me quickly check. Either way, you need to rest for several days,” she said, slipping on the latex gloves and smiling at Shaw. Shaw scoffed.

“I need to fight tonight,” Shaw replied, matter-of-factly. Margot blinked, taken aback, and then laughed.

“I don’t know how to tell you this Sameen, but you physically can’t,” she said lightly, approaching Shaw and indicating that Shaw should lift her top. Instead, Shaw stood up from the table and bristled.

“I can do it,” she snapped, looking down at Margot even though the doctor was slightly taller than her. Margot tilted her head, and bit her lip.

"You could have some serious injuries if you don't stop fighting soon," she murmured. Shaw laughed wryly.

"Isn't that the point of fighting?” She asked, raising an eyebrow at Margot. “Getting hurt?"

Margot watched her, her blue eyes piercing. Shaw held her gaze.

"No,” Margot said, slowly pushing Shaw back towards the table, “the point of fighting is hurting others.” Shaw sat down reluctantly and Margot gave her a teasing grin, tinged with relief. “No wonder you're injured," she added.

"Fine," Shaw snapped, rolling her eyes. "Hurting and being hurt are pretty synonymous though." Margot’s smirk didn’t lose its teasing edge, and she pressed down lightly where Shaw's lung ached. Shaw hissed unappreciatively.

"I don't know," Margot disagreed. "I think they're wildly different.” Her voice sobered. “But I'm pretty sure I need to let this air out." Shaw looked down.

“It’s pneumothorax?” Shaw asked, surprised. She hadn’t thought it was a pocket of air; a blood clot was more likely. Margot, to her credit, didn’t act surprised at Shaw’s extensive medical knowledge. Instead, she nodded.

“Yes,” she said with a tight smile, walking over to her computer and typing something, “but it’s very easy to treat –”

"Don't put me under," Shaw interrupted. Margot looked up, surprised.

"What?" She asked, completely thrown.

"Just give me the local anaesthetic,” Shaw snapped, “and do that now."

"Now?" Margot asked, surprised. “You need an appointment for this. And you need to be put under full –”

"I need to leave tonight," Shaw snapped.

“Just five minutes ago you wanted to fight tonight –”

“Plans changed.”

“In the last five minutes?” Margot asked, incredulous.

“It’s very urgent I leave as soon as possible.”

"Leave for where?" She asked, her voice rising in pitch. Shaw didn’t react.

"Business," she replied stoically.

"You have business to attend to with pneumothorax, which, untreated, I’m sure you know, can turn into flail chest?" Margot asked, incredulous. Shaw didn’t blink.

"Yes." Margot floundered for a moment, entirely unsure what to do with this evidently insane woman.

"I can't let you leave!" She tried, exasperated.

"Doctor, I don't know how to tell you this. You're gonna have to. Now, fix me up, or I'll do it myself with a nail." Margot flinched and sighed.

“Fine,” she muttered. “But i’ll have you know, this is illegal.”

“I’ll pay you for it,” Shaw snapped. Margot rolled her eyes and pulled out a tube of the anesthesia, and began rubbing the cold paste all over Shaw’s side. Shaw breathed out steadily, trying to ignore the pinching pain that the pressure in her side gave her. She closed her eyes, and desperately tried to push out everything.

After a couple of minutes of silence, during which Margot logged something in her computer, she approached Shaw again.

"Do you feel this?" she murmured, pinching the flesh. Shaw winced. Margot sighed.

"I don't think you're body is responding to the local anesthetic properly. I think I might have to book you for an operation." Shaw laughed wryly.

"In a month, right?"

"Well, I mean, the surgeons are in high demand..."

"I don't feel anything anymore," Shaw lied with a snap. Margot. jumped back, surprised. "Do it now." Margot sighed and prepared her tray with the necessary tools, walking over and placing it on the makeshift bed next to Shaw. Next, she manouvered Shaw’s arm so it was gripping her right shoulder, and cleaned the area with an antiseptic wipe. As she carefully took the scapula and aligned it with the lump in Shaw’s flesh, she started talking.

"Often people who have used a lot of drugs can feel this," She murmured, slowly pushing the scapula into Shaw’s flesh. Shaw breathed out between clenched teeth.

"I'm not an addict, Margot," she hissed. Margot dragged the scapula upwards, creating a small slit.

"I didn't say that," she replied as she carefully inserted the small clear tube through the wound and into the small pocket of air. Shaw clenched her jaw, but gave no other signal of pain as the fluid started draining from around the broken rib.

"You implied it."

"It's working," Margot said happily. Shaw nodded. "This will take about 30 minutes," she warned. Shaw nodded, and then watched carefully as Margot took off her gloves and walked back to the computer. For one terrifying panicky moment, Shaw thought she was going to leave.

"Will you leave?" Shaw asked, her voice going up a pitch. She had no idea where this fear came from, this irrational terror that she would be left alone, crippled. The rational part of her brain tried to assure her that it was the large tube in her chest. Margot looked up and smiled reassuringly though.

"Only if I'm called away. It's important I watch you," she explained with a smile, printing out a new form and clipping it onto her clipboard. Shaw frowned.

"Why the new form?" She asked critically.

"Were you ever in the army?" Margot asked instead. Shaw narrowed her eyes.

"Why do you ask?"

Margot shrugged. "You carry yourself like a veteran," she said as way of explanation. Shaw raised an eyebrow.

"Did you know many veterans?" She asked.

Margot smiled. "My brother," she said fondly.

"He's in the army?" Shaw demanded, quirking her eyebrow and giving Margot a once-over.

"Was, actually." Margot corrected matter-of-factly. Shaw frowned.

"Killed in the war?"

"Nope. He came home from the Afghanistan war. The doctors pronounced him healthy. Four months later, he killed himself." Shaw looked at her, clenching her jaw as another wave of pain pierced through her chest.

"Why are you telling me this?" She muttered. Margot smiled and tilted her head.

"You remind me of him," She admitted with a smile.

"I'm not suicidal," Shaw snapped. She sighed and lowered her clipboard and slowly sat down next to Shaw.

"You're lost," she said slowly, looking Shaw straight in the eye. Shaw’s jaw clenched again.

"I'm not a veteran, doctor," she snapped. Margot smiled sadly again.

"The war in Iraq isn't the only front the US is fighting on." Shaw shifted uncomfortably, trying to distance herself from this woman trying to drill into her brain.

"I'm not a survivor of anything,” she said curtly, adding a quick “thank you very much," when Margot didn’t react.

"But you're a survivor," she continued softly.

"Is this about finished yet?" Shaw growled, gesturing at her tube.

"It needs more time," Margot says, her eyes not leaving Shaw’s face.

"Well, I don't," Shaw growled, ripping off the tube. Margot’s eyes widened; she had clearly not anticipated this. She rushed forward, grabbing some gauze and holding the bandage against Shaw's chest.

"You can't do that!" She gasped. Shaw struggled up and pushed her off.

"I have to leave," she snapped.

"I'm so sorry, Sameen, I can stop talking, just please let me finish this procedure and then sew you up this gash," she babbled, her hands remarkably steady even while her voice quavered. Shaw looked down at her bright white face, and then sighed loudly.

"No talking," she repeated, sitting back down on the bed. Margot called the nurse, and together they reinserted the tube, before leaving Shaw alone. She enjoyed the silence; Margot sat at the computer, furtively throwing glances. After another 10 minutes, she carefully extracted the tube, and began to thread a needle.

"After I sewed you up, I might as well make sure that you don't throw all my hard work out of the window,” she grumbled. Shaw smirked, and then grimaced as she stabbed the needle into Shaw's side.

"Sorry," she muttered, "no warning makes the pain more bearable, I find." But for Shaw, the pain of an unexpected needle in her side brought about a different set of memories. She clenched her teeth as she remembered Hersh's breath on her cheek: "you were a good agent, Shaw." A good agent; even he had known that she would die, he had just hoped she could still die an agent. She looked down at her side. Margot was prodding her, tongue protruding from between her teeth.

As Margot carefully stitched up her side, Shaw decided the problem was Americans. Margot finished, and slowly taped a bandage over the wound. They liked talking, they liked asking questions and they liked prodding. She shrugged back into her blouse and planned her route out.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Shaw stared at the teller at the bus station. “What?” she asked slowly, clenching her jaw as she tried to repress the fury bubbling up in her chest. The attended blinked slowly at her, and then sighed.

“The bus already left,” he repeated slowly. Shaw slammed her hand on the counter and glared at him. He looked down at her flat palm, and then returned his attention to the magazine he was reading. Shaw realised he was reading Playboy. Her lip curled in disgust.

“I thought there were two buses,” she snarled quietly. The attendant remained unphased.

“Yeah, there are,” he said, voice still entirely devoid of tone. Shaw breathed out through her nose slowly, and narrowed her eyes at him.

“So,” she asked slowly, desperately trying to keep her temper in check, “when’s the other bus coming?”

“Tomorrow at 8.” If Shaw had had a gun on her person, she doubted she would have been able to be responsible for her actions. This boy was entirely unfazed by Shaw as she slammed her fist into the wooden panelling next to him. He watched her, still bored.

“You’re going to have to pay damages for that,” he said instead.

“When did the first bus leave?” Shaw snarled.

“At 8 this morning,” He replied, looking back down at his magazine. Shaw imagined a gun in her hand, bullet discharged at this idiot’s head. In her fantasy, she shot his dead body several more times.

Instead of indulging that, or roaring, or screaming, she breathed out slowly again, and looked at him with all the fury she could muster. She splayed her hand on the counter. Her knuckles were bleeding.

“So,” she whispered, her voice dangerously smooth, “explain to me how there are two buses in one day.” The attendant sighed dramatically and looked up from his magazine.

“There normally are,” he said, with an implied duh intoned. Shaw clenched her jaw again.

“But there aren’t now?” She asked. He rolled his eyes.

“No,” he said, “obviously.” Shaw clenched her fist, unclenched it, and sighed.

“Why not?” She asked quietly.

“Dunno,” the boy said, turning back to his magazine.

Shaw didn’t need a gun anymore. She could kill him 19 different ways with only her hands through that small square in the glass. She could break his neck faster than he could read the next word in his magazine.

Instead Shaw closed her eyes and counted to 10.

“So how can I leave?” She asked slowly, her eyes fluttering open. The boy didn’t look up, shrugging.

“Drive?” He suggested, very bored of this conversation.

“If I don’t have a car.” Shaw hissed.

“Hitchhike?” Shaw breathed out through her nose, trying to calm down the flashing anger fluttering through her veins again. She rubbed the blood off her knuckles and flexed her hands. It was fine.

She wanted answers, not the sound of him loudly chewing his gum. She clenched her jaw again. Hitchhiking was not a safe way to travel for a brown girl, especially not a brown girl who had two broken ribs. Not because Shaw was afraid of the potential attackers; rather, she was afraid of how noticeable she would be as a hitchhiker. People remembered hitchhikers, and told stories about them. No bus driver ever talked about his passengers.

“Nothing else?” She asked. The boy blinked, surprised that she was still here.

“You can buy your ticket for tomorrow?” he offered. Shaw scoffed. Advanced ticket buying was a rookie mistake. She rolled her eyes at him, hiked her bag higher on her shoulder and walked away.

She stepped out of the bus terminal and put on her sunglasses. Rocks, Idaho was a pretty town. Even along the empty mainstreet, greenery and flowers curled out of every crevice, and out of window boxes. It was bright and green, and Shaw glared at it.

If she was going to stay into this town another day, she might as well fight. She turned on her heel and walked towards the gym, making sure to wipe all the blood off of her knuckles.

 

"Sameen!" The gym owner greeted Shaw with a familiarity that irked her. "Margot mentioned you might be staying in town for a couple of days! How's the rib?" Shaw narrowed her eyes at him.

"Fine," she said carefully.

"The eye still looks a bit swollen," he commented jovially. “Margot didn’t mention that you got stitches.” Why was he bringing up the doctor? Was this small talk, or was this him showing her he had power over him? Shaw tilted her head at him and clenched her jaw.

"Cut the small chat, Mike,” she snapped. He looked surprised, caught off guard by her tone. “I want in on the next fight." He blinked, but then recovered quickly with an apologetic smile.

"Margot said you might say that-" he began.

"So you've already prepared it?" Shaw interrupted. He sighed and looked at the floor in shame.

"She also told me to barr you," he muttered.

"Barr me?" Shaw snapped.

"Yeah,” Mika said, suddenly very intent on his shoe. “She said you were a reckless type of person."

"Where did she get that from?" Shaw snapped. Mike gulped, and then shrugged.

"Margot is our doctor. She comes to every fight. I don't want to make her mad. If you wanna be in tonight's match, get her approval.” Shaw bit her cheek and glowered down at the man.

"She's not even a fighter!" She hissed. He took a deep breath and met Shaw’s eye contact.

"I don't care,” he said, his voice only wavering slightly. “Margot knows what's good for this town, and since she doesn't like you fighting tonight, I'm gonna follow her lead." Shaw ground her teeth. There was no way she was going to convince Margot. She stared up at the ceiling, and exhaled slowly again. Margot was right; fighting with an injured wrist was dangerous. Shaw closed her eyes and listened to the quiet sounds of the gym around her. The regular beat of the boxing glove against bag, the tap of people’s feet, the exhales of effort after every powerful punch. She relaxed carefully, and then opened her eyes again.

“Fine,” she muttered. “I’m leaving.” She hitched her bag on her shoulder again, ignoring the stab of pain that echoed through her body. Mike dabbed a bead of sweat off his forehead and watched her go with a relieved smile.  

 

By the time Shaw stepped out of the gym, it was well passed noon. She stared at the sun for a second, wondering what she was going to do in this dead little town, before she caught sight of the “Original Irish Pub” down the street, scoffed at the idea of any Irish authenticity in a place like this, and walked towards it.

A cheerful bell jingled as Shaw entered the dark interior. Shaw approached the bar slowly, putting down her bag and glancing around. “One second!” came the distant call of a woman coming up the stairs from the basement. Shaw carefully sat down at a bar stool and glanced around. It was neat little pub, with wooden panels and framed pictures and newspaper articles. It felt appropriate for this small town.

Shaw listened to

Cuckoo clock announcing that it had just turned 1pm made Shaw jump. “Sorry about that,” a familiar woman said with a smirk. “All the locals are used to that.”

“Franny?” Shaw asked, incredulous. The woman grinned.

“The one and only!”

“You’re not a farmer,” Shaw pointed out gruffly. She grinned.

“But the alliteration is so much better than “Local Business Owner Franny,” right?” She stepped forward and grinned even when Shaw didn’t answer. “Do you want lunch? I make a mean caesar salad.”

“Salad?” Shaw asked, raising an eyebrow in disgust. Franny grinned.

“Or I could make you something more substantial,” she said with a wink. “I have some good plates with a variety of different meats?” Shaw sighed. Of course she would end up in the town with the weird hipster bar.

“I’ll have one those,” she muttered, slightly annoyed. “and a beer,” she added after a second. Franny grinned happily.

“I’ll give you my homebrewed one,” she said cheerfully. “I make it myself.” Shaw looked at her dully. How could one person be this cheerful about beer? It was beer. She put the pint glass in front of Shaw though and smiled excitedly. “Go on, try it,” she said. Shaw sighed, and slowly sipped it.

“It’s good,” she said passively. She meant it; the beer was fresh and cold, and not too heavy. Franny grinned in excitement, and for a second Shaw was worried she was going to hear a lecture about how to make beer, or some other incredibly boring topic, but instead Franny gestured at the kitchen. “Do you mind dogs, by the way?”

“Dogs?”

“Yeah, Quequeg is here. I keep him in the kitchen, but if you don’t mind, I was going to let him out.”

“By all means,” Shaw said, gesturing dramatically. Franny smiled again, and opened the door. Shaw recognised the Great Dane from the night before as he walked out of the kitchen, tail wagging in excitement as he approached Shaw. A small smile pulled at Shaw’s lips as the dog came around the bar and waddled up to her. She didn’t react at first, but then he rested his in her lap, staring up at her with bright grey eyes. She carefully scratched his ears; the dog sighed happily, and closed his eyes. A small twinge in Shaw’s chest reminded her that she too once had a dog like this; she tried to push the thought and the feeling out of the way, but it didn’t budge. Shaw took a deep breath and pushed the dog off her lap; the feeling in her chest didn’t lessen. Shaw bit her lip and glanced down at where the dog looked up at her, eyes big and hurt.

“Do you like pates?” Franny asked, poking her head out of the kitchen. Shaw tore her eyes away from the dog and nodded.

“I like everything,” she said, her voice surprisingly raspy. She cleared her throat, and took a sip of beer. Next to her, the dog sat lay down on the floorspace next to her. She looked down, and the dog panted up at her happily. Shaw looked away again.

Franny came out of the kitchen with the plate just as the phone rang. She put down the plate in front of Shaw and picked up her phone.

“Yes?” She asked. Shaw looked down at her plate. She tilted her head, pleasantly surprised by the amount of food. There was a variety of different meats, a large hunk of bread, and several different cheeses. Shaw began eating as she unabashedly evesdropped on Franny’s conversation. “No, someone’s here right now.” Pause. “Oh no, it’s the stranger from the fight yesterday.” Another pause, and then a laugh. “Okay.” She glanced at Shaw, but Shaw ignored her, layering the hunk of bread with as much meat as would fit on it. “Okay!” She hung up the phone and smiled at Shaw again.

“Margot says you’re insane, and I shouldn’t talk to you.” Shaw looked up at that and raised an eyebrow. Franny’s expression missed the severity of her statement; she was grinning/

“I’m insane?” Shaw asked carefully, biting into her hybrid-sandwich combination.

“A menace,” Franny agreed cheerfully. She titled her head. “How’s the plate?” Shaw scrutinized her. She wasn’t very tall, but she did have a very energetic presence. Her hair was unnaturally wavy; the traces of last night’s braids, probably. Nothing to indicate anything strange about her, though. Shaw swallowed her bite of food. People in Idaho were weird. That was the only explanation, right? Things like this never happened in New York.

“The plate is good,” Shaw replied instead.

The door to the bar opened, and the dog left Shaw’s side, bounding up to greet the new arrival. Shaw sent a quick glare at the dog before she looked up to see a familiar face. Margot. Did this town only have a residence of two? Was that why Shaw kept on running into the same people?

“What are you doing here?” Margot demanded, glancing between Shaw and Franny, who just emerged from the kitchen wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. Shaw looked down between her food and Margot.

“Eating,” she replied, confused.

“Mika said he refused your request for a fight,” Margot said pointedly. Shaw dropped her fork and turned to glare at Margot.

“You wanted to fight again tonight?” Franny asked, amazed. Shaw continued to hold Margot’s glare.

“Yes,” Shaw replied, matter-of-factly.

“Then you stormed off,” Margot added, crossing her arms. Shaw laughed wryly.

“I don’t storm off.”

“Why did you come here?” Margot snapped. Shaw raised an eyebrow.

“because I was hungry.”

“There’s a diner two blocks over.”

“I didn’t see that.”

“I don’t believe you.” Shaw clenched her jaw and closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them again, Franny was at Margot’s side, hand on her shoulder.

“It’s okay,” she was murmuring, “it’s okay.”

“She’s not okay,” Margot muttered back, still eyeing Shaw suspiciously. “She’s some kind of ex-military woman.”

“I know, I fought her yesterday –”

“But her scars,”

“There’s something she’s not telling us.” Then, louder, as if Shaw couldn’t hear the entire conversation, “Who are you really?” Shaw laughed hollowly.

“Really?” She repeated, turning back to Margot and raising an eyebrow.

“There’s a lot you haven’t told us,” She added.

“I haven’t told you anything,” Shaw pointed out.

“And why is that?”

“Margot!”

“She has no name! She has no passports! How don’t we know she’s not some kind of…”

“Terrorist?” Shaw supplied, her voice straight and serious. Margot shifted from one foot to another.

“I didn’t say that,” she muttered. Shaw laughed and swallowed the last dreg of her beer, getting up from her chair and shouldering her bag. She turned to face Margot slowly, and stared her into the eyes. “You had me down as a checked out soldier with some sort of need for masochism, probably with some sort of psychosis, right? You watched me check the exits, and decided it must be paranoid delusions. When Mike rejected me, you thought that might flare up some violent streak. You came here because you thought I was going to hold your girlfriend ransom until you let me fight. Does that sound right?”

Margot opened her mouth, as if to say something, and then closed it again. She held Shaw’s eye contact and stepped forward slowly. “Tell me I’m wrong,” she said slowly. “Tell me that fifteen years worth of medical experience, some of it in the army, is wrong, Sameen. I’m not here because you’re brown. I’m here because I watched you, and I saw fear. I’m here -”

“You’re wrong,” Shaw interrupted her, before she could continue.

“About what?” Margot asked. Shaw detected quivering fear in her voice, but she stood tall anyway. She had missed the military posture. Shaw wondered how she had missed the posture as Margot approached her. Shaw took a step back.

Margot opened her mouth again, but before she could say anything, something on the screen behind her caught Shaw’s attention.

BREAKING NEWS, the ribbon along the bottom of the television read; BOMBING AT AN ABANDONED SUBWAY STOP IN DOWNTOWN NEW YORK. The image showed a familiar intersection, except that there were cracks in the road. Road blocks 100 feet from either side, with police vehicles stopping anyone coming through. Smoke rising from one of the nearby buildings; the impact must have started a fire, Shaw thought as a fire engine careened onto the screen. The image switched from the live helicopter feed to a news announcer, and Shaw’s eyes tore away from it so she could look at Margot

“They’re not delusions,” she murmured. “Can I buy your car? I need to go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun facts if u can do thirty pushups on your fists u 2 can punch some wood and not break ur knuckles (i can only manage like 6 rn and its the bane of my existance)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check for triggers in the end notes

Getting to the airport was easy; Margot, shocked and confused, gave Shaw the number of a man named Tommy who was selling his beat up pick-up truck. Shaw dumped the entire content of her gym bag on his doorstep, and he wordlessly handed her the keys.

The first regional airport was small; Shaw sighed and took a plane to LAX, and then Mexico. She didn’t fool herself into thinking that Samaritan wouldn’t be aware of her every move as she re-entered the country, but she hoped at least it would take time for it to send actual agents to come get her if she entered the country a different route. A small biting at Shaw’s ribs reminded her that that was almost entirely wishful thinking, but she ignored it, and boarded the plane. 

Everything took too long. The plane was an hour early, and yet Shaw strained against her seat for the entirety of the trip, day-dreaming about release from the small metallic cylinder. It wasn't that she hated flying; she trusted the machine's to do their job. It was just she hated the claustrophobia of the plane, and the feeling of being trapped. She couldn't concentrate on the terrible movies her screen offered, and instead ended up watching the flight information cycle between maps and descriptions of her altitude with frustrating slowness.

Once she landed, the border took far longer than it was meant to.

Shaw should have foreseen this. She should have flown as Sameen Farrokhzad, a naturalized US citizen, or Sameen Lajani, who had never left the country before. Foreign Sameen Rajavi was held up at the border for nearly two hours. Her green card glittered in her airport as they put under several different black lights, frowns increasing as each test confirmed the veracity of the document. 

"You understand, Ma'am," a patient border woman patronized her, "we had a bombing and several different terrorist organizations have taken credit. They were all Muslim."

"I'm not Muslim," Shaw pointed out. "I'm an atheist." The woman laughed nervously and then gestured at Shaw.

"But you understand," she said, and Shaw understood that what she was saying was that Shaw had the right skin colour and origin and name to be suspicious. She gritted her teeth, and remembered all those other passports with less conspicuous names.

Logically, Shaw knew that she set off other buzzers. She traveled light, with barely any luggage, didn't smile, and didn't make conversation. She had bought her ticket with dirty cash from selling all her other identities at the airport less than an hour before the flight left from Mexico City. She  looked like a suspect. It wasn't  only  her name. But there was still the sneaking suspicion, the terror crawling up her spine, that it had to be something bigger. She glanced at the security camera, and clenched her fist under the table. She breathed out, and repeated her cover story again, her gentle voice belying her nervousness.

When she left, or better yet, was finally allowed to leave, she kept her eyes peeled. She stepped into the arrival section, overwhelmed with the sudden crowd of people, and scanned everyone. No one looked away, or caught her eye, or bowed their head down suspiciously. It was only 2pm, but the 

Shaw gently rested a hand on her gym bag, filled with a change of clothes and nearly a 1000 USD stitched into the lining, and considered her options. Her eyes flickered from person to person, and she realised she needed to get away from the crowd. Shaw casually bumped into a man, relieving him of his wallet with a deft hand as she walked over to the car rental place. 

“Good morning, and welcome to Hertz!” A representative said with a smile. “Do you have a reservation?” Shaw looked down and opened the wallet. The ID boasted “Sam Garcia,” and Shaw grinned. She could work with that. She laughed.

“No,” she admitted with a small giggle, “are there any cars free? Any fast cars?”

“Is this your first time in New York?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Ma’am, I don’t know what to say, except that fast cars won’t be much use to you here.” Shaw leaned forward on the counter and grinned.

“Give me the best you got, anyway,” she said with a wink. The young man smiled.

“We have a Mercedes A-Class; does that work for you?”

“Sounds wonderful!”

“Can I have a credit card a valid driver’s license?”

“Can you register two drivers? My husband is just dealing with our son. He was sick  all over the plane.”

“Oh no!”

“I know. I  said we shouldn’t fly, but….” The attendant punched in all the details, and Shaw had to sign twice.

“We’ll have to wait for your husband now,” he said seriously. “He needs to sign here.” Shaw sighed and looked towards the bathroom, biting her lip with perfectly adorable nervousness. 

“It might take quite some time,” she sighed. “Do you mind if I just,” she winked, “signed for him?” Shaw made sure that a sliver of her desperate  need bleed through as she leaned forward. The man dithered, and then handed her the pen.

“Only this once,” he warned. Shaw grinned at him, and scrawled a signature that might or might not have read Sam Garcia. She took back the credit card and license, and took the car keys with a smile. 

Shaw obeyed every traffic rule as she drove into downtown Manhattan, realising with some ounce of perverse joy that the TSA hold-up meant she had missed rush hour traffic. She parked the car in a random garage perhaps 20 minutes from the old subway stop, and hailed a taxi. 

Taxis were the best source of information in New York City; the driver’ss unofficial network of knowledge gave Shaw access to privileged information without forcing her to look anything up.

"I heard a street exploded around here," she began, glancing at the taxi driver conversationally. It was all he needed. He immediately began telling her how his buddy Nigel's sister Sue had been right there when it happened; the whole street erupted. There were cracks in the pavement, Sue had said, and it looked like Jurassic Park. You know, after the dinosaurs? You haven’t seen the movie? Well, like a big angry dinosaur had stomped on the asphalt, that’s what Sue said. It was about 5am, so there not many people around, but Sue was there. Nigel believed that the bomb went off at the wrong time; why else would a deserted street crack at 5am? It was probably meant to go off at 5pm; didn't that happen to a lot of people? The PM/AM confusion? Well, thank GOD it had happened to these bombers. Shaw nodded in agreement, trying to hear through his words.

5am. John and Harold were probably working, or living, being ordinary citizens. They probably weren't there. But Root? Something clenched in her chest. Root could have been hurt.  Bear could have been hurt.

"Any casualties?" She tried to sound casual, as if she didn't care. She didn't have emotions, remember?

"They're not sure yet," he replied. "It turns out the bombs were in a secret subway stop? Did you know that they had those? Nigel said they have them  everywhere . I have lived in this city for almost fifty years and I had no idea!" He laughed. "So, to answer your question, they're worried there might of been some kids down there that triggered the explosion."

"I thought it was a terrorist thing?"

"Oh, no, they don't think that anymore. Turns out there was just a bunch of pressure collecting in some old pipes, and then there was some small decompression, and boom!" Shaw was pretty sure Nigel had told him this.

He dropped her off on the corner of the intersection, and Shaw tipped him well, and walked into the bodega on the corner. She looked up at the camera in the corner, winked, and walked to the ATM. She slipped in poor Sam Garcia’s credit card and withdrew 500 dollars. She hoped his credit card would reimburse him for this fraud. Or at least freeze his account. She took the cash and left the card, walking towards the main site of the crash.

The subway stop had caved in on itself. From the street level, all Shaw could see what a caved in hole. NY officials were already clearing the damage, trying to fix the road to make it useable again. Suddenly, Shaw could  see where Sue had gotten the comparison with dinosaurs from; the explosion seemed to have created a smaller webs of cracks in the pavement, connecting with already existent potholes, making the area look weirdly trampled on.

There was a police man on the far corner, and as Shaw looked up her caught her eye. Shaw smiled and stepped forward with brusque confidence as she inhabited another persona.

“Hello, my name is Jasmine, and I’m from the Daily Sun. I was just wondering if I could have a quick  peek downstairs -”

“That area is off limits Madam,” he said. He was short and looked exhausted; he had probably been here since 4 or 5 in the morning.

“Is it really?” Shaw asked, flashing him the stack of crisp 20 dollar bills. He swallowed, and lead her down the stairs which had been cleared of rubble and into the subway.

As Shaw looked around, she began trying to figure out where the bombs had been placed. One near this pillar, another one here. She bit her lip, and desperately tried to make sense of the rubble. But it was impossible; the ceiling had fallen in on itself, and Shaw couldn’t go much further inside without the integrity of the building endangering her. She looked around at the man again. She tilted her head and handed him 100 dollars in twenties.

“I’ll be back in 15 minutes,” she told him. He looked between the money and her, and nodded.

“I’ll take my lunch early,” he decided. She nodded, and ducked under the police tape.

There were no casualties. It was easy for Sameen to tell; the subway stop was partially cleared.

She looked around; the subway car had been largely protected from the rubble around it. The person who had planted the bombs and triggered the explosion had no detailed information of the station, otherwise they would have

She looked around; the car had been largely protected from the rubble around it. The person who had planted the bombs and triggered the explosion had no detailed information of the station, otherwise they would have aimed to destroy the car too. Shaw prowled around the edges of the rubble, and then, testing her ground carefully, made her way to the subway. She walked into the subway car, and immediately found an acute sense of relief.  Someone  had survived, because someone had skillfully removed all the evidence of Harold's activity in the subway car. The computers were gone, and the gun and technology paraphernalia which used to litter the room had been replaced with the content of two or three New York trash bags. Empty bottles rattled around, and although Shaw noticed the tiny marks that indicated the chocolate wrappers and half eaten lunches were planted, she highly doubted anyone else would notice. She breathed out slowly, the tightened feeling in her chest loosening slowly with the stench of the trash. She closed her eyes.

Everything was fine. Bear was fine. (She didn't let herself add anything else to that statement.)

Shaw considered the crime scene again, but now from a different view.

This was undoubtedly Samaritan, though Shaw was sure Martine would be able to read all the same signs that Shaw had read. Samaritan had probably not done this attack to specifically kill John, Root and Harold, though that would have been a positive side effect.This was to flush them out of their hiding place, destabilize them again, force them to work in public libraries and talk to each other on public phones. Shaw clenched her jaw.

So, if she were Martine, what would she have done?

There was a clang and Shaw's heart sank.

If she was Martine she would have someone watching the door to report if anyone came sniffing. If she was Martine, she would have circulated pictures of all the persons of interest that she had determined. If she was Martine, her face would be the number 1 face on that list. Shaw glanced at herself in her mirror. She looked different; perhaps the police officer hadn't recognised her?

There were voices above her, and Shaw realised she had two options.

She had a gun in her back pocket, and itched to use it, but she just closed her eyes and imagined all the exit routes. Something had changed within Shaw; there was a new terror, creeping fear, and niggling suspicion, chewing on the inside of her stomach as she imagined the result of the shoot out.

Suddenly, she was back in a cramped white room, head throbbing and desperately trying to breathe as Greer stood over her, smirk laced with a victorious arrogance that seemed to leave a bitter tang at the back of Shaw’s neck. She closed her eyes and breathed out steadily.

All of Harold's emergency exits were blocked by either the rubble or people, except the one under the subway car. This exit, a manhole that descended into the sewer system, was Shaw's only chance. She sighed, resigned to an unpleasant exit, and walked to the end of the car, grateful that no bombs had been set at the east end of the subway station; she could squeeze between the cement wall and the subway car to crawl underneath it easily enough. Once Shaw was under the subway car, and switched off her flashlight, she realised it was very hot in her enclosed space. Her breath hitched visibly as she tried to concentrate on feeling her way forward, trying to find the hatch. Her hand bumped against the metal rails, and she got a powerful electric shock. Shaw gasped, thrown by the shock, and the moment of fear that the shock had caused her. She took a deep steadying breath; the voices were getting louder, and although rationally Shaw knew there was no way she was actually identifying Martine's voice from the distance, she was sure that.

Shaw clawed at the escape hatch, and felt panic rise in her throat as the man hole wouldn't budge. She sat up and banged her head on the top of the subway, swearing quietly as she felt a part of the mechanism of the subway cut the nap of her neck. Shaw didn't notice the hot blood trickle down her neck however, she was clawing at the manhole, bile rising in her throat.

Shaw had been through tours of duties; she had seen what battle stress did to people. But Shaw didn't suffer from battle stress. Shaw was together; Shaw didn't feel anything. She wasn't scared of anything. She tried to take a deep breath, to win over her shaking hands, but her nails still clawed a stubborn manhole cover and she couldn't get it to open. The voices grew louder. A man and a woman discussing her: "yes a woman came through here. I don't know whether or not she came out though, I was eating lunch."

"Why did you let her in?" The female voice was totally unfamiliar. Shaw curled up in a ball under the subway car, desperately trying to breathe out at a steady and slow rate so that her panting didn't give her away, despite the fact that the world was blurring in front of her as panic and shock made her whole system freeze. She curled around herself, and breathed out very slowly. Her hands were still shaking.

Shaw’s military experience kicked in; she crouched forward and put as much pressure on her chest and counted in her head, desperately trying to recognise the voice.

The whole situation reminded Shaw of both times, when her tour was up, and her platoon spent two to three weeks in Kuwait at an Army Base. It was a decompression exercise; they were told to clean the trucks, the equipment, and themselves. Everything had to be packed, ready to ship. Some people went shopping for souvenirs and wandered around, getting their first taste of American food in months. Other people used the phones, or checked their emails. It was  almost like they were home.

But Shaw  hated that military base in Kuwait, because it was  almost home. She was in a situation where she was stiff and regimented, and still uncomfortably hot, and yet the comfort of her weapon was removed.

“You’re no longer in a combat zone,” the administrators explained.

But they didn’t understand; the entire time in Kuwait Shaw would reach for her carbine, a matter of habit, checking that it was still in its same comforting position, only to find it  gone with a bitter shock of panic.

And then she would realise.

But it was that moment of  panic , the shot of pure fear that the worst could have happened, she could have  lost her weapon , is what made Kuwait so awful. Shaw hated the feel of vulnerability as she prowled around, unarmed.

Back underneath the subway, Shaw checked her weapon. It was still on her, along with her backup piece.

And yet: the uncomfortable terror of Kuwait still hung around her as she desperately tried to listen. She tried to force herself into the moment; she gripped her gun tighter, and closed her eyes, and  concentrated .

The man was speaking, explaining how he was just getting his lunch. Shaw opened her eyes, surprised: so he didn't give her away? He seemed to have no idea. He ended his sentences with "officer" though; a new police detective? Shaw looked between the platform and the subway car very carefully, making sure not to make any sudden movements that would draw attention to her position. The young guard was standing between the woman and Shaw, but she seemed to tower over him, dwarfing him, though not in statue but simply in confidence. Shaw tilted her head; this other woman was tall and slim, with

“Can you describe her?” Shaw swallowed.

“Short?” The man offered. Shaw narrowed her eyes at him. “Pretty?”

“Anything more concrete, Mr. Kane?”

“Well,” he took a deep breath and screwed up his face, “she had dark hair? And dark eyes? And held her arm like this?” he mimed holding an arm in a sling. Shaw looked down at her arm. Was she still holding it like that? She should stop doing that? “Brown eyes?” Well that was just  wrong . “Exotic looking.”

“Does she look like this?” She held up a picture, but from her angle, Shaw realised she couldn’t see it.

“Yes.” Shaw froze.

“Thank you very much. That will be all.” The man seemed to stare at her awkwardly. “You can return to your post,” she added icily. The man nodded.

“Yes, Detective Riley,” he muttered, and walked away. Shaw stiffened.  Riley? Was that  really such a common name?

“Shaw?” The young woman turned a full circle, and Shaw noticed somewhere, at the back of her brain, that she was quite beautiful. “Harold sent me.” Shaw didn’t move. “He said you might not even be here by the time I get here, but that I should talk to the empty room anyway. “Shaw works in mysterious ways,” he claimed. I don’t know what that means. Harold sends you a message, and it’s kind of weird. He said “cover blown, when you see a statue, think explosion.” The young woman looked around and sighed.

“I owe him and John a couple of favours, but really, this is just weird,” she muttered. “I’m  leaving ,” she announced to the room. “If you’re here, or you know anything, don’t try and find me. I’m just the messenger.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for panic attacks

**Author's Note:**

> tw: very graphic hand to hand combat, description of surgery


End file.
